


A Simple Arrangement

by pterodactyldrops



Series: good as new [4]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Bad Pick-Up Lines, Dirty Talk, Eventual Smut, F/M, Masturbation, Not completely canon compliant, Porn With Plot, Pre-Relationship, Present Tense, Smut, Vaginal Sex, handjobs, start of relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2016-02-25
Packaged: 2018-05-03 22:39:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5309708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pterodactyldrops/pseuds/pterodactyldrops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Is that a Nuka-Cola in your pocket,” Molly purrs, “Or are you just happy to see me?”</p><p>Four times the Sole Survivor used a pick up line on MacCready, and the one time it worked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“You know what, MacCready?” Molly calls out.

She stares at him over her shoulder, temporarily distracted from the corn she was inspecting.

Every settlement they wander near (and Molly’s definition of _near_ is _very_ different than MacCready’s), she has to stop to check on the plants. Make sure they’re growing okay in this Wasteland or something. She and Preston have been obsessed with making sure each settlement can take care of itself.

MacCready guesses it’s _kind_ _of_ cool. Useful, at least, to have a steady supply of food.

It’s just he didn’t think when he accepted 200 caps ( _not_ 250, but, _no_ , he’s not bitter about that _at all_ ) that he’d be babysitting crops.

“What?” he snaps. He shoves his hands deeper into his pockets, playing with the shotgun shells that he’s been meaning to give her. He looks up at the sky. At the hodgepodge, box-y houses next to him and Molly. A knocked over lamppost. Dogmeat playing with some stuffed animal.

Anywhere but her, really.

She’s distracting enough. But it’s even worse when she’s got her head twisted over her shoulder, looking at him with her wide, blue eyes. Half-crouched, legs still straight, back to him. Wearing that darn Vault-Suit.

That thing shows off way more than he ever thought possible. What were those criminals at Vault-Tech _thinking_ when they designed it? Did everyone’s ass— _butt_ stick out that much in the suit? Or was it only hers? Was he oh-so-lucky to run into the one Vault dweller with a round, plush ass that didn't look like it belonged to her slim waist? Like something so soft didn’t belong in the Commonwealth at all?

He spends way too much god _darn_ time staring at her ass when she runs into a group of Ferals or Raiders instead of, you know, _shooting them like he’s getting paid to_.

“If you were a vegetable,” Molly sings, voice carrying too far, “You’d be a _cute_ -cumber.”

“Ha ha,” MacCready says, but he _is_ laughing despite trying to keep a Seriously-I’m-A-Professional-Mercenary face on. “Jokes on you. I don’t even know what a cutecumber is.”

“It’s a cucumber,” she corrects, resuming her planting. She pulls a husk of corn off of the weed growing out the ground and shoves it into one of her millions of pockets. “A vegetable. That’s the _joke_ , dumbass. It’s a pun. I called you cute.”

Molly says these things like they’re not a big deal. Because they’re not. Absolutely not. But dam— _darn_ , he can feel his cheeks beginning to burn red. Stupid. It’s so stupid. He’s supposed to be the one making crappy, awful jokes around her. He’s not supposed to get flustered.

He’s glad that she’s got her back to him. It makes it easier to say loudly, too loudly, covering up the shyness in his voice, “Oh, yeah, _of course_. I knew that. Just wanted you to admit you think I’m cute again.”

Molly’s not paying attention. She’s gone back to picking husks. Making her way down the line. She’s not ignoring him so much as re-focused. He’s learned in his weeks of traveling with her that she’s got a pretty singular attention span. It bounces, and now it’s fixated on something else, she’s moved on.

And he can move on too. It’s nice. Lets him lower his guard. Gives him a chance to do something crazy _like his job_. What he’s getting paid to do. Watching her back—wait, no, not her _back_. Don’t start thinking about her ass again. Don’t start, don’t—

Molly’s back connects with him and she lets out a soft _oof_. He should’ve paid attention. Should’ve noticed her walking backwards, collecting each husk, not watching where she was going. He could’ve avoided this. Could’ve avoided her ass colliding against him.

But he doesn’t think that. Not really. His mind has gone almost blank. His hands leave his pockets. One flies to her waist, stopping her, holding her, _almost_. It’s been a long damn time since he’s _held_ anything, let alone anyone, so his hand more of awkwardly sits limply at the curve of her waist. There’s not anything to hold onto in her vault suit. No soft fabric to grip. Just a strange leather-and-rubber combination, and a curve that he’s thought about way too often.

He thinks he can feel her breath stop.

“MacCready?”

It’s a weird disconnect. An out-of-body feeling. His hands feel like they’re not part of him but also that every part of him is connected to them at the same time. His heart thuds, his hands twitch. His breath leaves his nostrils harshly, his fingertips try to grip her harder.

His other hand, his left one, settles on her hip. Vault-Suits don’t offer much protection. They’re good against radiation. That’s about it. He can’t feel the warmth of her body through it, but his thumb presses into the soft flesh above her ass and he wants to-to-to--he doesn't know what. Make some sort of noise deep in his throat. Make a pleased sound. _Something_ _._ A moan, maybe.

And his fingers—the pads, the tips, they stretch out. They stretch and he can feel the boney part of her hip. The way the bone juts out, surrounded on all sides by softness. He could trace it. If he moved his index finger, twisted it, he could trace the bone upwards and find her waist. Find the soft flesh of her belly.

Or he could move his hand down, down, _downwards_. Flattening his palm, fingers stretching wide, and _goddamn_ he is _fucked_ if he starts thinking about her softness and warmness and tightness.

He gulps. Vault-Suits have a zip that run from the neck downwards. But he wishes she was wearing jeans. Jeans like his. He could tug them down an inch or two, let them hang low on her hips, just until he could see her skin. And then trace her hipbone with his fingers. Or his tongue. Fuck, he could trace her body with his _tongue_ , find every curve, every divot, every old scar and new, _tasting_ —

Molly takes half a step back. Further into him. _Pressing_ against him.

And now he’s sure he’s the one who can’t breathe.

“Is that a Nuka-Cola in your pocket,” Molly purrs, “Or are you just happy to see me?”

MacCready chokes. He’s laughing. At least he thinks he’s laughing.

“Nuka-Cola,” he says, letting his hands drop from her sides. Stuffing them back into his pockets. His voice is a little higher than usual, so he forces his voice into his _Mercenary_ tone, low and cool and confident and everything he’s not feeling. “’Cause you’ve been making me carry all of your _dang_  junk around.”

“Oh,” Molly says, wiggling her hips at him. “I’ll show you some junk, MacCready,” she announces, before reaching into one of her pockets, pulling out a vegetable, and tossing it at him. The wink she gives him should be criminal. “Just for you.”

“Great, thanks,” he says, sarcastic bite in his tone. He catches the corn and stuffs it next to the ammo he’ll give her…eventually. Just not right now. “Just what I needed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is anyone else becoming obsessed with this dork mercenary? :(
> 
>  
> 
> [Tumblr.](http://pterodactyldrops.tumblr.com/)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You know,” Molly says in that sing-song voice, and MacCready's already groaning into the mattress because he knows what comes next, “You sound like you’re falling madly in _bed_ with me.”

“This is so stupid,” Molly announces after tossing and turning for at least hour. “Really stupid.”

“ _Wow_ ,” MacCready murmurs, staring up at the crumbling ceiling from his back. “I can’t believe it’s taken you that _darn_ long to admit it. I mean, I should’ve heard you say that at _least_ a dozen times today—”

Molly reaches across the space between them—between the dirty mattress she’s sprawled on and the stained sleeping bag he’s crawled into (“ _See? Bet you’re glad I collect this junk now, MacCready,” “No, not when I have to carry it all,”)._ He’s an awkward arm’s length away, but Molly crosses it like it doesn’t exist, and smacks his shoulder firmly.

It doesn’t hurt. It’s barely a tap. But MacCready moans, “ _Oww_ ,” and makes a show of rubbing the spot, hissing and wincing.

Molly giggles—no, scratch that. _Giggling_ is something that rich folk in Diamond City or women from old radio spots do. Molly doesn’t have some cute, light, little chuckle. She gasps for air and when she’s finally able to breathe, a loud snort goes up her small nose.

Still, MacCready gets this goofy grin on his face. A grin that’s directed at her and returned in kind.

She could’ve hit him way harder. She’s only teasing. She’s gotten a lot stronger since he met her. If he were a betting man he guesses it’d have something to do with all the Super Mutants she’s been bashing over the head. Her legs have gotten stronger, leaner too, probably from running halfway across the Commonwealth. Her waist’s gotten a little thicker from muscles that weren’t there before, but her ass has stayed exactly the same. Her ass—

No. No, no, _no_. _Not_ starting this again.

MacCready stops grinning at her. She raises one of her careful eyebrows at him, but he stares stubbornly at the ceiling.

If he’d only known how much trouble that little thing that strolled into Goodneighbor was going to be. If he had, he would’ve—he would’ve—

He would’ve _at least_ stuck to getting 250 caps.

“Well?” Molly prompts, fidgeting. The mattress creeks underneath her.

“Fine, cool your jets,” MacCready drawls. “I’ll indulge you. What’s _so stupid_?”

“That we’re not sleeping together.”

Okay, so, he wasn’t exactly relaxing in his smelly sleeping bag before, but now any hope of getting a wink of sleep tonight is gone. At least he has the sense to keep his cool. He doesn’t start coughing and sputtering. He keeps his mouth closed even as his mind runs.

He can _feel_ her eyes on him. Feel the smug smirk on her face. This must be one of her dirty lawyer tricks. She says these things just to get a reaction out of him. He’s watched her push other people before to see when they’ll break—but usually she’s, you know, trying to get more caps out of someone. Not…this… _whatever_ the hell—heck this is.

But what, his dumb, crazy, _traitorous_ mind says, what if she wasn’t only teasing?

The possibility is hard to believe.

MacCready hazards a glance at her. He’s glad he’s got his hat on—the brim of it casts a shadow over his eyes, and if he’s lucky (which he almost _never_ is), she won’t notice his stare.

Molly’s turned on her side to face him. Her feet fold neatly at the edge of the bed, and as he follows her lean legs up, her thighs become thick until he’s staring at the deep V they form. The pose she’s struck exaggerates her hips, makes them rise far above the rest of her body, only to fall on the other side to her waist.

She plays with the zip of her Vault-Suit. MacCready thinks it might be a nervous habit ‘cause he’s seen her do that before when she’s trying to figure something out—best way to get more caps out of a deal, easiest way to sneak around Raiders, which gun she wants to use to kick someone’s ass. But even if it’s no more than habit, watching her fingers wrap around that zip and _tug tug tug_ makes his mouth water.

The zip’s pulled down just a fraction. An inch—maybe an inch and a half—from her neck. The amount of skin she’s showing is _nowhere_ near indecent. There’s not even a hint of her tits peeking over the edge of her Vault-Suit. But it’s more of her skin than he’s ever seen and it makes his whole body pulse.

He’s been around the block a few times. He shouldn’t get so damn excited, shouldn’t feel all the blood in his body pool hard. But something about Molly fills him with a new kind of ache and he’s _so_ sick of that old, tired longing that he wants to run wild with this new sensation. It’s all he can do to not let it fill his senses, overtake him, until he can’t remember anything, can’t _feel_ anything but the memory of how warm her ass was, pressed against every part of him in the field the other day. Until he can hear nothing but his own heartbeat in his ears and the purr in her voice.

 _Is that a Nuka-Cola in your pocket_ …? It’s damn hilarious that he’s so hard from that stupid line and from her staring at him through half-lidded eyes now. But her body was warm in that field—it’s probably warmer now—and he wants more, _more_. His fingers twitch and his mind swims, and MacCready drowns in that sweet spot between memory and hope.

“Thoughts, MacCready?”

MacCready’s tongue feels thick in his mouth. It sneaks past his teeth, to his lips, wetting them, and he says the first thing that comes to mind. “I know I’m impressive…” He’s going to beat himself up over the next part later, he’s sure of it. “But are you sure?”

He’s gotta ask because MacCready knows enough to understand that he’s got no idea what he’s doing right now.

“Yeah, I’m sure.” Molly scoots over, making room for him on the stained mattress. She reaches out, brushing his leg through the sleeping bag, and runs her hand up the length of the fabric, searching for the zip. “There’s no point in you sleeping on the hard floor and me shivering over on a mattress when sharing’s an easy fix.”

Oh.

 _Oh_.

Oh, _fuck_.

Not sleeping together. Just sleeping. Together. Next to each other. As in actually _sleeping_. Not…well, _you know._

“Unless,” she says, waggling her eyebrows at him ludicrously, “ _You_ were planning on being my blanket?”

“Fat chance,” he growls, mind screeching _liar_ as he tears the sleeping bag open. Molly looks so damn _smug_ right now. She reads him—reads _everyone_ —like an open book and knows just how to tease him until he fumbles. MacCready doesn’t know how to handle it. It’s just—it’s so _weird_ being on the receiving end for once.

MacCready’s glad that his hat covers his ears. They’re probably turning pink.

The sound of the sleeping bag unzipping fills shack. His hands shake, just for a moment. It makes him think about how the only way Molly can get out of that damn Vault-Suit she wears is to grab that little zipper at the top and tug it down, down—

“Move over,” he says gruffly, rolling onto the stained mattress, taking the sleeping-bag-turned-blanket with him. “You better not hog all the sheets.”

“You know,” Molly says in that sing-song voice, and he’s already groaning into the mattress because he knows what comes next, “You sound like you’re falling madly in _bed_ with me.”

“Really?” he asks, tugging the blanket up to his chin. “ _Really_ , boss?”

She shrugs. She takes up more space on the bed than he’d hoped but less than he wanted. “Just trying to lighten up the mood a little.”

Her hand falls limply between the two of them. Her fingers stretch out wide. She drums them on the mattress, the nylon fabric bouncing with the spring underneath. She tugs at a loose thread before using her nails to pick at a stain. “D’you know what this is?” she asks. “I’m gonna assume the red bits aren’t blood.”

“Keep on dreaming, sweetheart,” MacCready says. He’s back to staring at the ceiling. Back to trying to keep his mind blank instead of on her body stretched out next to him.

When Molly isn’t wiggling, she’s trying to lay perfectly still. MacCready feels like he should do something with his hands, but they just stay stiffly at his side. This is definitely the most clothes he’s ever worn while being in the same bed with someone. Molly’s got her Vault-Suit and boots on. He’s got his duster and a scarf wrapped tightly around his neck.

Despite the fact that this has gotta be the _strangest_ sleeping arrangement _ever_ , his body is humming. He can hold his arms at his sides, he can clamp his mouth shut tightly, he can stop himself from _doing_ stupid things like leaning into her to catch the scent of her hair, but MacCready’s never been able to get his damned mind to shut up.

He can’t remember the last time he slept next to someone. _Actually_ slept. Felt…safe enough to relax, felt okay enough to close his eyes and let things be.

He’s not saying he’s there right now. That he has a sense of calm. That he’s _comfortable_ around Molly. But there’s this feeling he’s got in the pit of his stomach that she’s got his back. And a warmth that surrounds that, telling him that he thinks he has hers too.

 _Lucy_. Lucy was the last person he slept next to. Lucy was the last person he felt anything close to this with. What would she say about him now? Would she be upset? Betrayed? Did it matter? She was gone. Dead. He misses her. She’s left a dull ache in him, one that he’s grown used to.

It’s a different ache than the gnawing one he’s got now lying next to Molly.

He tries to lay as still as she does. MacCready tries to not breathe too fast. Or too hard. Not too soft either. Just be cool. Just be _normal._ But it’s so damn difficult because he feels anything but. His dumb mind won’t shut up. Won’t stop wavering between thoughts of Molly’s ass and thoughts of his dead wife, and if that isn’t a hell of a fu— _messed up_ combination, MacCready doesn’t know what is.

“Sorry.”

Molly’s voice is quiet. It’s so different from her usual roar that MacCready’s not even sure that he heard it. He turns his head, the brim of his hat knocking into one of the tricorners of hers. “What did you say?”

“I’m sorry that I…talk too much.” Her lips barely move. Only enough to form the words she’s speaking. “I’ll stop if it makes you uncomfortable. I just—”

“Don’t know what to do with the silence?” he finishes for her.

Molly inches her hand closer to his. The edges of her fingertips rest against his. Her nails have been carefully cleaned with the edge of a knife, filed down to neat squares. His have always been short, stubby, from being picked at when he thinks no one is watching.

Molly doesn’t talk about her husband much. Less than MacCready talks about his wife. But he wonders if she’s been thinking the same things as him. He wonders if this is the first time she’s slept next to someone else. Just like him.

He folds his large hand around hers.

“Yeah,” Molly exhales. “Yeah, exactly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry my porn developed ~*~feelings**~*. This dork just kills me. 
> 
>  
> 
> [Tumblr.](http://pterodactyldrops.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s because,” she sings, raising her eyebrows at him, and MacCready can just feel it in his bones, feel what’s coming next, “We’ve got to get you back to heaven—”
> 
> “Oh, god,” he groans loudly, covering his face. “Not this.”
> 
> “’Cause that’s where you fell from, right?”

Molly is drooling on him.

MacCready’s arm is numb ‘cause it’s caught somewhere between their two bodies, pushed close and wrapped together. He’s warm—way too warm. MacCready is used to shivering in the night—duster tucked around him, arms locked tight at his sides, sleeves pulled down over the edge of his knuckles in a pretty much hopeless attempt to stay warm.

MacCready’s eyes sting too. The sun’s managed to find the one broken window in this whole joint, and it’s hitting him right in the face. _Of course_. He turns his head to the side sharply, and his nose becomes buried in Molly’s thick hair. His nostrils fill with the unpleasant smell of gunpowder and Rad-Away.

And his only good shirt is getting soaked through.

All things considered, MacCready’s woken up to worse things.

“Boss,” MacCready tries to say, his mouth filling awkwardly with her hair. Molly moves away, burrowing her face into his arm. She makes a noise that’s either a whine or growl. MacCready can’t tell.

Should he shake her awake? MacCready’s not sure what to do with his arms and hands. With his body. With his voice. He is tight and tense and _too_ loose at the same time. He never remembers waking up next to someone and feeling like this. This need tempered by awkwardness. Then again, MacCready hadn’t given much thought to what it’d be like to wake up next to Molly.

Wake up to anyone again, for that matter.

MacCready licks his lips. “C’mon,” he repeats. He tilts his head downward. Her mouth, open, is still pressed against his arm. His eyes catch on her red lipstick. It’s smeared at the edges. A little messy. He can taste her name on the edge of his lips, but he swallows it, and says instead, “Boss.”

Molly opens her eyes slowly. Sleepily. The black stuff she paints around the edges of her eyes is smudged too. She blinks, then stares up at him. Her lips curve into a half-smile. Soft, though. Not the toothy grin, the one that takes up her whole face. This is something else. Tender, almost. It’s a look he hasn’t seen directed at him in…well, in a _long_ damn time. And never from her.

He never expected to see that look from her.

“Hey,” Molly murmurs.

“Hey,” MacCready echoes back.

One of her hands has slipped under the buttons of his duster. Her short nails scratch against his shirt. She clutches at it. Her fingers make spirals of the fabric that’s become soft from too many washes, and MacCready takes that feeling and magnifies it. What would her _clinging_ to him feel like? Hand tugging instead of resting, pulling instead of curling.

“Good morning,” Molly tells him.

They both smell awful. Her hair hangs in greasy strands, and MacCready’s scalp itches. They haven’t taken a bath in at least a week. And he’s still hot. Arms are still numb. Sun still bright in his face. Sleeve still wet.

“Is it?” MacCready asks, ‘cause it’s easier to complain about the bad bits. Easier than smiling back at her just as soft.

“Yeah,” she tells him, tugging his shirt harder to pull her body flush with his. “Yeah, it is.”

He wonders where his own arms are. There’s the one she’s been drooling on—it’s still awkwardly tucked somewhere behind her head. She’d taken it as a pillow at some point in the night. He can’t really feel it, not like the rest of his body.

He’s too aware of _that_. Too conscious of how her body fits against his own. MacCready is long and a little on the lanky side. But Molly is round and her curves settle neatly against his square planes, and MacCready can feel every movement she makes. Hell, he can feel her _breathing_.

MacCready finds his other arm. It’s lazily curled around her waist. His calloused and dirty hand settles just below her back. A little lower, even. On her—on her—

_Shit_. Has he really been copping a feel of her ass all night?

Molly arches an eyebrow at him. And she _knew_. She knew this whole time. Her grin turns teasing. He _knows_ that look. “Boss,” MacCready warns.

Molly’s eyes widen in mock innocence. The bed shifts as she scoots her hips backwards. Into his hand. And MacCready, like the idiot he is, doesn’t move. It’s partly because he feels stuck. He’s not sure what is and isn’t a joke, what is and isn’t okay. But the other reason, the other _huge_ reason is that—is that he doesn’t _want_ to. He doesn’t want to move.

“We should—” His voice sounds low. Huskier than he expected. But it’s loud in the empty shack.

We should what? What what _what_?

Molly bats her eyelashes at him. Flutters them. A choked up laugh starts to erupt from MacCready. He’s never _actually_ seen someone make that sort of face before. But then Molly bites her lower lip hard—hard enough to make the flesh bulge out, hard enough that her red lipstick leaves a stain on her white teeth—and the laughter gets stuck in MacCready’s throat.

She’s stopped wiggling. She’s pressing her ass into his hand, and MacCready’s hand tightens around it, cups it, reflexively. He looks down at her and her face is close. Molly’s nearer than she’s ever been. They’re closer than they’ve ever been, arms and legs a tangled mess.

“We should what, MacCready?” Molly asks.

There’s an indent where Molly was biting her bottom lip. Where she tugged and pulled it into her mouth. He could close the distance between them. He could—he could _kiss_ the corners of her mouth, tease her lips until they opened, until he could slip his tongue inside and tangle with hers. Breathe her in.

Molly tilts her head to the side, staring at him. Smile on those damn lips.

Why doesn’t he? What’s stopping him? Why can’t he just _kiss her_?

“What’s up?” Molly teases. “Cat got your—”

“ _General_?”

Molly’s Pip-Boy crackles to life. She’s usually got it stuck on some Diamond City tune, but sometimes she switches it to Liberty or _Freedom_ or whatever the heck the Minutemen call their station. MacCready doesn’t pay too much mind. She and Preston are really into the whole _Minutemen_ thing.

“General, if you’re there, we’re, uh, we’re requesting you report—er, arrive at—”

With Molly’s gaze broken, MacCready begins to relax. His body becomes less stiff (at least in _some_ places) and the tension he didn’t realize he was holding leaves slowly. He lets his head fall back into the mattress with a dull thud.

His arms, empty now, feel useless. His hands, less occupied, feel cold. He snaps them close to his side and closes his eyes. Darn. _Damn_. He was so close to her. He’s going to spend so much time kicking himself for not doing _anything_.

MacCready likes staying at a distance. Likes keeping his sights set on something far away. But Molly’s immediate. In his face. _Here_. Real and warm, not an old memory. Not a ghost.

Molly drops his hat on his head, the brim of it covering his closed eyes. He lifts off the cap and pushes his hair back before snatching the hat back down. “We going, boss?” MacCready asks in an easy, half-bored voice. It’s a tone he knows well. One that he can trust not to betray him.

“Yeah,” Molly says. She’s sitting away from him, and she holds her arms up and high over her head, ready to position her tricorner hat in its place. She stretches, back arching. Pushing her chest forward. And it’s all too easy for MacCready to think about sliding his hands up her side, over her breasts, and then down the front of her Vault-Suit.

But Molly is watching him.

So MacCready makes a show of rolling his eyes at her. He picks up his rifle off of the ground next to him. He checks the chamber before stringing the strap of the gun around his shoulder. Truthfully, he does anything but give her the satisfaction of knowing that he was looking.

Molly is smart. She’s charming. But she’s not _sneaky_. She’s got the subtly, the stealth, of a Deathclaw, and he can actually see her watching him. Looking for his reactions. It’s what she does. Pushes people. Tests them. Sees how they react, how they break. MacCready’s gotten used to it. Her intuition with people has saved his ass more than a couple of times now.

He’s just not used to her turning that on him. Not used to being watched like she watches him.

“We’re headed out,” Molly finally says. She gets up to her feet and holds out a hand in front of his face.

He takes it. The palm of Molly’s hand is still soft, but there’s callouses where she’d hold a pencil or pull the trigger of her shotgun. And her grip is strong. She wraps her fingers around his, threading them together, before pulling him to his feet.

She lets go of his hand quickly. Drops it like it’s burning. MacCready frowns and rubs his fingers. Her touch usually lingers. Hell, sometimes he thinks she finds excuses to brush his hands, touch his elbow, stand close to him.

“Besides,” Molly continues, brushing her hands on her pants. “I want to get you back.”

MacCready raises his eyebrows at her. She hesitates, looks like she’s waiting for him to argue. But MacCready won’t. If she wants to switch him out for someone else, that’s her right. He’ll grumble a little, maybe, but _only_ because he thought they have a good thing going

He gets his caps either way.

His sleeve is still wet and his nose still itches from the scent of her hair.

Yeah, caps are all that matter.

“You know,” she continues, raising her eyebrows at him. “It’s because, you _know_.”

“I really don’t,” MacCready says dryly.

“It’s because,” she sings, raising her eyebrows at him, and MacCready can just feel it in his bones, feel what’s coming next, “We’ve got to get you back to heaven—”

“Oh, god,” he groans loudly, covering his face. “Not this.”

“’Cause that’s where you fell from, right?”

MacCready laughs into his hands that are covering his face. “Let’s _go_ already, boss.”

“Can do,” Molly cackles, prancing out the doorway. MacCready follows, shaking his head, with some stupid grin he can’t seem to get off of his face.

Their walk is quiet. Brisk, though. They stick to the roads and make quick time. Molly’s in a hurry to meet up with Garvey and the Minutemen.

They don’t run into trouble, which could be luck. Could also be that MacCready insists on taking a moment to look through the scope of his rifle for danger and Molly—to his great surprise—agrees that it’s better to skirt _around_ the Super Mutants for once.

It seems like they’ve only been walking for half the day before the wall surrounding each settlement peaks into view. Garvey is waiting for them just outside the walls. Molly picks up her pace, half-running towards him.

“General,” Garvey says, tone professional.

“Preston,” Molly laughs, thumping his shoulder. “Couldn’t stand having all the fun to yourself, eh?”

MacCready hangs back. _Awkward_. The Minutemen are fine. He likes their hats. But the joining a righteous force without pay isn’t his gig.

“Glad you got our message, General,” Garvey says, “We’ve got a situation at one of our settlements—”

_Our_ settlements.

“I’ll just be around,” MacCready calls out, turning his back. “Looking for the nearest bar. Someone around here’s gotta know how to make a decent drink.”

Molly and Garvey’ll go off and save the settlement. Be gone for a few days. Not that MacCready has a problem with that. He doesn’t, not really.

He makes his way towards the back of the settlement. He’s been around Molly enough to know she usually sets up her shops back here.

It’s getting cold. Sun has started to set. Wind has picked up, too. It usually means a storm is on its way. MacCready hopes it’s not one of those dam—dang radiation storms. Garvey and Molly looked pretty set on leaving ASAP, and he’s not _worried_ about her. _Them_. They can take care of themselves. Molly can handle herself.

It’s just there’s this gnawing part in his stomach because, well, if he’s to be honest, he _wishes_ that he was going out with her.

He rubs his face, tired. Damn. When did he turn into such a sap?

“MacCready,” Molly says behind him.

He turns around. “Hey, boss,” he says.

She stops about a half dozen feet away from him. Her nose and cheeks are bright, rose-y red from the cold. He hadn’t noticed before they got here. Probably because this place has good light and most of the Commonwealth doesn’t have half a dozen generators humming in the background.

“Hold up a sec,” she tells him. MacCready huffs. Molly walks towards him. One long leg out in front of the other. Her boots thud against the broken up concrete between the two of them. Her shotgun’s holstered through her belt. She always keeps it close to her. Even at the settlements.

“Headed out?” MacCready asks.

Molly purses her full lips. Her lipstick isn’t smeared anymore. MacCready’s close enough to see that. He can see where her breath leaves through her nostrils, too, and how she’s holding her arms close to her side in the Vault-Suit.

Cold. She’s _cold_.

“Yeah,” Molly says. “We’re headed towards a settlement up North. I’m taking Preston with me.” She leans back on the balls of her feet for a moment and fiddles with her hands. It’s ‘cause she’s cold, though. Not ‘cause she’s _nervous_ or anything. Molly doesn’t _get_ nervous.

“Well, uh, don’t do anything I wouldn’t out there,” MacCready replies, unsure where this conversation is going. Molly talks a lot—rambles, even—but the conversation isn’t usually so…stilted. She fills any awkward silences for the both of them.

“Yeah.” She clears her throat, then smiles. But it’s a weak smile.

She _is_ nervous, MacCready realizes.

“Hey,” MacCready says. He reaches into his pocket, pushes past the toy soldier he keeps there, and grabs the spare shotgun shells he’s been carrying. He meant to give them to her earlier. Now seems as good of a time as any. “Here, these are for you.”

She closes the gap between them. Takes his outstretched hand. She covers it with her own, but doesn’t take the shells. Just sort of holds it there. Holds him.

MacCready swallows.

“Thanks,” Molly says. “But, uh, do you—do you happen to have a map?”

MacCready frowns at her. “Your Pip-Boy’s got one,” he tells her. “So, no, I don’t. I try not to carry around junk.” He tries to make his voice sound harsh. Bored. But it comes out as teasing.

“Shame,” Molly says. She’s standing close now. The tips of her boots almost touch his. She still smells like gunpowder and Rad-Away. It still makes his nose itch. And he…and he still likes it. “Because I was getting lost—”

MacCready shakes his head, realizing his mistake too late. “Wait, wait, _not_ one of these again—”

“In your eyes,” she finishes with a grin. A wide grin. One that fills her whole face. Shows her white teeth. She looks at him, expectantly. _Gleefully_.

MacCready finds that he’s not actually annoyed. For all of his moaning, for all of his groaning, he finds her…finds _this…_ nice. And MacCready doesn’t think much in the Commonwealth is nice.

“I walked right into that one,” he tells her.

“You did,” she agrees.

Her hand is cold in his. They’re standing close together. Too close. She didn’t need to get so close to take the shells off of him. But he doesn’t back away, and she doesn’t make a motion to move either.

He can see her breath escape from her nose. Harsh, short, like she can’t quite catch it. It’s warm on his face. Makes the rest of the world feel colder.

Her lips are pulled in a grimace, and she wraps her arms around herself, trying to keep warm through the thin Vault-Tech fabric.

Her suit won’t keep her warm out in the Commonwealth. Not if they’re leaving tonight. And he doesn’t worry. He _doesn’t_. But he wants to…wants to help her. Against Super Mutants and feral ghouls and, yeah, even the fu—freaking cold.

His hands are up around his neck, unwrapping his scarf before he can change his mind. It smells… _awful_. It smells really awful. But so do they, and it’s warm. If he can’t be with her out there, at least he can make sure she won’t be cold.

He takes the scarf and wraps it around her neck. He loops it twice, and it hangs down her chest, long and awkward. MacCready looks at Molly, expecting her to say some dumb pick up line again. But she doesn’t. She stares at him, mouth slightly open, and then MacCready realizes that she’s _blushing_. The red on her face has turned pink, and she’s _blushing_ over something he did.

He smiles down at her. Smug, almost. “Impressed, are you?” he asks.

MacCready doesn’t realize how much shorter Molly is than him until she arches up on the balls of her feet and kisses him.

It’s soft. Just a gentle brush against his own lips. Careful. Her hands are balled into fists at her side, and she leans backwards, away from him, like she’s scared of boxing him in. Like she’s worried that he’ll run away. But MacCready won’t.

He lifts a hand to her face, fingertips ghosting across her jaw. His other hand rests at the small of her back, and pushes, gently, pulling her closer to him, pulling into their bodies are flush.

And he kisses her back.

Slow. Cautious. He’s used to staying his distance and he just—this _can’t_ be another one of her jokes. It can’t be. Molly makes a small, tiny pleased noise against his mouth. Her hands relax, uncurl from her sides. She leans into him. She breathes. And he kisses her.

They are standing near some broken down building in Settlement and MacCready is _kissing her_.

He should’ve done this that morning. He should’ve done this so much earlier.

Their lips break apart. They both are breathless, silly smiles plastered on their faces.

And then Molly arches against him and changes the whole momentum of the kiss.

Her hands, once hanging loose at her side, grab his duster. She holds onto the fabric, using it to pull herself up up _up_. MacCready’s hand leaves her jaw, and he grabs her hips, helping her, hoisting her close to him.

She wraps her legs around him, hooking her ankles at his back, and MacCready stumbles forward until she’s held between him and the settlement’s wall.

What was hesitant has become hungry. MacCready runs his tongue over the seam of her lips and she opens to him, gasping. MacCready swallows the sound and slips his tongue inside of her mouth.

Her mouth leaves his. She places open mouthed, wet kisses across his cheek and neck, until she reaches his earlobe. She takes the lobe into her mouth and nibbles, just a little, before sucking on it.

The moan that MacCready makes is _loud_. He grips her ass, harder, hands kneading the flesh. He tilts his head, biting at her own skin, tasting the salt and dirt. His beard scratches her skin, but he kisses the spots, soothing them.

When his teeth scrap at her collarbone, Molly lets out a moan that makes MacCready’s whole body shiver.

“ _General_? Where’d you go?”

“Just—just ignore them,” Molly groans. She throws her head back as MacCready’s mouth inches lower, tongue lulling into that space where her skin ends and her Vault-Suit begins. “Just ignore them.”

“That’s what I was planning to do, boss,” MacCready growls.

Their bodies are so close. Hips pressed into one another’s. He can feel her buck against him with every touch. Her heels dig painfully into his back to move herself up and down, but MacCready doesn’t give a shit. The friction between their clothes feels _so damn good_ and he groans, moans, loudly, into her neck, the skin there becoming moist.

“Don’t stop,” MacCready pleads. The friction, her body wrapped around him, it makes him want to roll his eyes into the back of his head and just _enjoy_ it.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Molly says, kissing his mouth again.

MacCready uses his weight to press her against the wall. He brings up one free hand and runs it around her waist, and then up, to where he barely ghosts over one of her full breasts. Her mouth drops open and he pauses. Stops, waiting. Her mouth closes again.

MacCready grins, then presses his palm into her, cupping her breast, thumb rolling over where her nipple is.

Her mouth hangs open again and a strangled sort of noise comes from her throat. It’s enough to make MacCready groan. Enough to make his whole body throb, to not want anything but to run his dirty, grime-covered hands all over her. Her legs. Her ass. Pull down her Vault-Suit. Nip and bite at her breasts. Trace his hands down her stomach and dip into her thighs. Feel how wet he hopes she is.

He moves his hand upwards. Presses her harder against the wall, his cock dragging along the seam of her Vault-Suit. “Tease,” Molly chides, leaning forward and biting his bottom lip hard. She soothes it with her tongue, letting it tangle with his again.

His fingers play with the zip of her Vault-Suit. Just one tug. A little tug. Then he could—

“ _General_? Where the hell are you?”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Molly whines, eyes closing, head thumping back against the wall. “Shit, ass, _fuck_.”

But they can’t hear footsteps. Whatever Minutemen’s been sent to find them, they’re still far away. And MacCready wants this so damn bad. She’s bucking against him, rubbing against him, and he just wants more of her. All of her.

He tugs the Vault-Suit zip and pushes the scarf he gave her out of the way. It sags open, slipping a little off one shoulder, before cinching back at her waist. Her exposed skin breaks out in goosebumps, and Molly arches out her back, pushing her breasts towards his hand.

She looks so hot, back arched, pressing herself closer to him. His mouth wets and it’s so easy to slip his fingers over her bra, so easy to feel the swell of her breasts underneath his palms.

“Oh, oh, _fuck_ ,” Molly gasps. MacCready finds one of her hardened nipples. He rolls it between his thumb and index finger before pinching it through her bra. She bucks her hips against his, wildly, and he almost sees stars in that moment. “I—”

“ _General_ , we need to get moving!”

Fuck Garvey. _Fuck_ Garvey and his shitty, bad timing. Molly _whines_ at MacCready, eyes half-lidded, but she’s already pulling away. She’s loosening her legs around him and letting go of his duster.

“I have to go,” she complains. “ _Fuck_ , I have to go, MacCready.”

He lowers her fully to the ground. Slowly. He’s breathing hard and fast, and he feels light-headed. But he’s got this stupid, silly grin on his face, and when Molly notices is she gives him one just as silly back.

“I get it,” MacCready says. She reaches for the zip of her Vault-Suit with shaky hands and zips it up. He lets his own hands settle on her waist. He doesn’t want to let her go. Not when she was so close.

“I’ll be back,” she promises, and kisses him once again. It still has heat behind it. Still makes MacCready moan. He leans into it, hand inching back down to her ass, before she breaks the kiss, darting away, grinning at him.

“You better be back or else I’m going to kick Garvey’s ass,” MacCready tells her.

“ _Language_ , MacCready,” Molly laughs. She fiddles with MacCready’s scarf, making sure it’s secured around her neck. It hides the marks he’s left, the red rash from his beard.

She bends over—making sure to do so at her waist, almost touching her toes (she thinks she’s _so_ sneaky)—and picks up her shotgun from the ground. She wiggles her hips teasingly, before flashing one of her toothy grins at him.

“Oh, and MacCready?”

“Yeah?” he asks, dragging his eyes from her legs all the way to her face.

She licks her ruby red lips, staring him down. “I _am_ impressed.” Then, giving a wink so exaggerated that MacCready isn’t sure whether to laugh or roll his eyes, she adds, “With _every_ inch of you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay dorks kissing. :D
> 
>  
> 
> [Tumblr.](http://pterodactyldrops.tumblr.com/)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m impressed with every inch of you.” Her words are stuck in his head. They’d been a joke—he’s sure she meant them as a joke. But her voice transforms, becomes low, the laughter hidden behind her tone is gone.

MacCready’s not sure how long he’s been leaning against the wall where Molly left him.

Hours? Can’t be—the sun’s still hanging in the sky. Minutes more likely, but it doesn’t feel like it. It’s goddamn strange how time stretches when his mind can’t stop spinning.

He raises a hand and rubs it over his mouth. She _kissed_ him. Molly kissed him. And he’d kissed her back, too, and for a whole few moments there they were just a tangle of legs and limbs that he hadn’t dared to dream about.

Okay, no, that was a lie. He’d dreamt about Molly. He’d dreamt about her _a lot_. More than he should probably admit. Sure, some of it was her laugh, her smile, all that other shit that made his chest feel warm, but an embarrassing amount of his dreams were full of her ass and breasts and mouth.

But dreaming about her lips and _tasting_ them were different.

MacCready snorts and lets his shoulders fall back against the metal wall, feet kicking out from under him. When did he turn so damn poetic? _Jesus_.

He pats his duster with his hands and finds a packet of cigarettes he’s been carting around. It’s all crumpled—could be from traveling. But it’s just as likely crumpled from Molly wrapping her arms around his neck, using him to leverage herself against his whole body, melting into him, and still not feeling close enough. MacCready grappling at her, pulling her closing, needing her closer, and—

MacCready taps out a cigarette and holds it in his mouth. He blindly shoves an empty hand into his pocket, pushing past a few .308 rounds, some bits of wire Molly made him carry, and his toy soldier.

_He rest against broken shelves in an abandoned department store, breathless from the swarm of ferals he and Molly barely shot down._

_MacCrady’s heart is beating too fast and his palms feel too sweaty. He wipes them on his pants, leaving wet streaks, and tries to balance a cigarette between his lips. His throat feels tight, swollen, and he thinks of the ferals he and Molly barely escaped from, and then of_ the ferals _and_ that _dark memory, and all he needs is a goddamn cigarette. A fucking cigarette will calm him down. Make him feel normal again. They’re just fucking ferals. He’s got this. He’s got a handle on it. He just needs to find his damned lighter. He has one—he picked it up in Goodneighbor a few weeks ago, if he could just find the damn thing—_

 _“Here,” Molly says, holding out a lighter. “Found this with all_ the junk _I was planning on making you carry.”_

_He reaches for it, but Molly leans forward and presses it into his hand. Her fingers are cold, smooth and boney, and she holds onto him for too long._

_He gulps. Molly gets a smirk on her face the moment she notices._

_“Thanks,” he grumbles, snatching the lighter, and turning away from her._

MacCready pulls the lighter Molly had lent him out of his pocket. His fingers shake as he tries to light the end of his cigarette. He ignores the tremble. He doesn’t _have_ fingers that fumble. A sniper who fumbles is shit at his job. And MacCready’s not. MacCready’s the best sniper in the whole damn Commonwealth.

 _I am impressed with you_.

His lips curl around the cigarette. Yeah, Molly was definitely impressed with him. The little sounds she’d made when he kissed her, and the _moan_ they shared when he ran his hands up her side and finally, _finally_ grazed her breasts, letting his thumb slide over one of her hardened nipples—

MacCready pushes back away from the wall. He takes a final drag of his cigarette before dropping it on the ground, twisting his shoe to extinguish the flame.

He needs to…to not think about _that_. Otherwise he’ll be leaning against this wall all day, pants getting tighter every moment.

He takes a deep gulp of cold air, pushing the smoke out of his lungs. He’s making the motions of breathing, but it doesn’t feel like he’s taken back any of the breath Molly stole from him when she stroked his tongue with hers, and—

And…and a walk. A walk’d be a great idea right about now.

He’ll check out the settlement (that seems like a very noble, very _impressive_ thing to do). Maybe find something for target practice. Better yet, find a bar that makes a good drink. _Settle_ for something that he’s able to knock back.

Yeah, great plan. Good distraction.

Except three trips around the perimeter of the settlement does nothing but make his feet start to ache.

Target practice turned out to be useless. _Figures_. The whole damn settlement was surrounded by trees. Trees that an _impressive marksmen_ like him could hit with his eyes closed. Well, no, not with his eyes closed because that was just _dumb_. But none of ‘em were worth wasting is rounds on. Besides, wasn’t like there was anyone around worth showing off to, anyway.

MacCready _did_ find a bar. Lucky him. Some stand tucked under a low hanging roof surrounded by haphazard picnic tables.

As predicted, the drinks were shit.

Still, MacCready nurses a glass between his hands. The liquor—whatever it is—is warm. It burns his throat. A good sort of burn, too. Makes him feel less cold without his scarf on. ‘Cause he’s given that to Molly. She’s got it looped around her neck, hiding the red rash his beard had scratched into her skin when he’d tasted her pulse, wrapped himself in her warmth, pulled her closer while she latched onto him—

MacCready takes another swig of his drink.

He’s usually better at distracting himself. But he can’t manage to get Molly and her lingering kiss off of his mind.

It was Garvey’s fault, MacCready decides. Preston-save-another-fucking-settlement-Garvey. If the two of them hadn’t been interrupted—

_Molly’s vault suit zip inches down, lower, and lower, until it settles around her waist, pooling out, her breasts in some beige bra, and MacCready wants to drag his teeth where the fabric ends and her skin begins, wants to feel her arch against his chest while they lock together—_

MacCready stands up quickly. He feels lightheaded. Blood rushing to too many different places at once.

“You all right there?” asks one of the settlers.

“Yeah,” MacCready gruffs. This’s stupid. He’s acting stupid; like some lovesick teen or a kid who’s never kissed a girl before or some other shit like that. “I’m _fine_.”

Sleep.

He’ll try to sleep.

If MacCready’s sleeping, he can’t be blamed for his thoughts, right? And he might as well get a few hours of shut eye. Molly drives them hard (MacCready gulps and pushes _those_ thoughts away) whenever they travel. They get enough sleep. _Enough_. No more than that. It’ll be good to spend a night relaxing.

There’s not really privacy in the Commonwealth. Not in merc camps, not in settlements, hell, not even in fancy Diamond City where most of the residents rested in sleeping bags by the pond.

But MacCready’s good at finding tucked away spots. He runs across a couch that has most of it’s stuffing left, pushed up against a corner that leads to a dead end. Didn’t seem like many people’d walk by this spot or try to bother him.

Anyway, wouldn’t matter if they did. He was going to sleep. That was all.

MacCready flops down onto the couch. His feet stick out over the edge and his head rests against the arm. It feels lumpy, and his neck’ll probably ache in the morning, but he’s slept in _much_ worse places before.

Hell, even the last place he slept in had to be worse. A broken down shack, too-small mattress with a weird stain on it. MacCready pulls his cap down over his eyes. Yeah, it was worse. The only bright spot had been Molly next to him. Her warm body, all curves and soft skin that he’d wanted to run his hands over—

MacCready snaps his arms to his side. He’s not going to do this. He’s not going to lay here and torture himself like this. He was gonna—he was gonna—

 _Damnit_ , he was going to _sleep_.

But each time MacCready shuts his eyes, he sees Molly biting her lips, hand reaching to pull down the zip of her Vault Suit. Watching her eyes dance, watching her laugh, grinning at how eager he is. And MacCready _remembers_. He remembers, embarrassment be damned, how much he wanted to—how much he _wants_ to—

“I’m not doing this,” he announces to no one.

MacCready unhooks the extra ammo strapped around one of his thighs. He unties the binoculars around his belt.

He’s not gonna do this.

He stares up at the ceiling.

His hands fumble with his belt buckle, the leather catching on the bits of metal, before he tugs it free.

He’s just—he’s just getting more comfortable. _Relaxing_.

But his cock is already hard, tenting against his pants. And he aches all over. He feels like he’s been this way for days, tense and all wound up.

MacCready turns his head, frowning.

Something inn that kiss put him over the edge. It snapped whatever hopeless restraint he had. MacCready swears he could feel her heat through the seam of her Vault Suit, and he repeats the little noises Molly made in her throat whenever he rolled one of her nipples between his fingers.

His thumb plays with the button at the top of his jeans. This isn’t a great idea. It’s probably an awful one. But he wants to sleep and he can’t get her out of his head, and this’ll help. Probably. Maybe. It better.

He takes a deep breath. _Okay_.

MacCready’s thumb makes quick work of the buttons on his jeans. He licks his palm, then slips his hand inside, underneath the waistband of his underwear in one quick movement he’s made a thousand times before.

His fingers fumble around his cock, gripping himself a bit rougher than he needs to. But he’s already as hard as when he and Molly were grinding up against one another, hard as when she had to leave him standing there next to that building.

He licks his lips, letting his head thump back against the flea bitten armrest. He’s not—MacCready’s not shy or nothin’. He’s done this plenty of times before. Lots. _Tons_ —as much as a normal twenty something guy should, right?

The point is, he’s an expert and getting off quickly in mostly not-public places.

But all that quickness, that haste—all of it’s a need. A scratch that’s gotta be itched. And, yeah, what he’s got now qualifies as a helluva itch. But he…it’s just… _shit_ , it’s embarrassing to even think like this, but he wants—he wants—

MacCready huffs. He wants to take his time.

He wants to remember the feel of Molly’s lips against his skin. Wants to think about how their hips slotted together. He wants to try to imagine what it’ll all feel like with no clothes between the two of ‘em. He wants to picture how their reunion’ll play out when they see each other next. _Soon_.

MacCready hasn’t wanted to take his time with himself, hasn’t wanted to do something like fantasize since—since—

He loosens his grip on himself. His thumb slides over his head, spreading the precum gathered there, and he lets go of his lip that he’d been worrying between his teeth without realizing it.

He’s not going _there_. He’s not gonna start thinking about subway stations and screams. He’s gonna think about Molly. He wants to think about Molly and him.

He’s gonna think about how her voice gets raspy, husky, almost, when she leans in close to him. Her breath hot on his neck. MacCready liked it when she kissed him on his neck—tongue tasting his skin, a tug at his earlobe. Remembering makes a shiver run down his spine, and he loosens his grip, lets his hand fall down from his head to the base of his cock.

It’s easy to lose himself in the memory. He’s always been pretty good at that—getting lost in remembering. MacCready thinks about Molly pressing herself against him, and he thinks about how Molly’s breasts strained against her Vault Suit.

He smirks, pumping his hand. Molly _really_ liked him touching them. The moan she made when he ran his thumb over her nipples—high, like the feeling surprised her too. He just—MacCready just wants to let his tongue lap at the space between where her bra ends and her skin begins. Tease her like she’s spent so long teasing him, until she untangles their arms and legs and reaches behind her to unhook her bra band.

His mouth wets, thinking about the fabric falling to the ground with the rest of her Vault Suit. He barely had a chance to unzip it earlier. Now he imagines peeling the suit down her long legs. Of her stepping out of it, towards him, hand snaking down his chest, long nails scratching him through his t-shirt.

There’s a slickness and regularity to MacCready’s strokes. His hand picks up pace, starting at the base of his cock, and moving upwards, twisting, before he pushes down again.

 _“I’m impressed with every inch of you.”_ Her words are stuck in his head. They’d been a joke—he’s sure she meant them as a joke. But her voice transforms, becomes low, the laughter hidden behind her tone is gone. He thinks about her unbuckling his belt, just as he had earlier, and her warm hand sneaking inside. He thinks about her fingers wrapping around his cock, tugging once. Twice. Then moving, up and down, faster and harder than he usually does, her mouth poised in a smirk at the noises she wrings from him—

MacCready bucks into his hand, hips lifting off of the couch.

He wants to stop. Wants to slow down. Wants to think about Molly more, wants to _take his time_ , but MacCready’s not patient and his hand feels good, but it feels better imagining that it’s Molly’s hand wrapped around him.

He breathes through his mouth, lips drying. He whimpers when he removes his hand, but it’s just to scratch at his hipbone. His nails are blunt—far shorter than Molly’s, but he thinks about her scratching at him, clawing at him, needing him as much as he needs her.

MacCready runs his hand up and down the length of his cock. Pumps himself hard. He’s starting to see stars, starts telling himself to slow down, because he knows what he feels like, but Molly wouldn’t. Molly would take her time. Stroke him, kiss him, maybe wrap her thick lips around his cock, take him into her mouth, tongue swirling, _sucking_ , and—

MacCready lets out a strangled cry, louder than he should’ve, as he feels his cock pulse once, twice, and then that’s it. He comes over his hands, over his stomach, messily, whole body shivering and twitching.

“I—” MacCready starts to say, but there’s no one around. Molly’s not around. He tries to breathe, tries to catch his breath, but he feels dizzy and lightheaded and _fuck_. Fuck, fuck, he hasn’t come that hard in a long damn time. But he hasn’t gotten off to the idea of a particular person in just as long.

He gropes around for something to wipe himself off on, and settles on tugging his dirty t-shirt over his head and mopping the mess up with that. It needs a wash, anyway. It smells like dirt, radiation, and now his come. He tosses it to the side, next to his binoculars and rifle.

MacCready settles back against the couch. The fabric feels rougher now, and his duster stifling. He feels warm, despite the lack of t-shirt. Sensitive almost. Limbs feel like they’re less part of him, too. It’s _kind of_ like being relaxed.

But when MacCready closes his eyes, he sees Molly and her smirk, and all of this did _nothing_ to stem the want that thrums in his body.

He sighs and tugs his cap over his head. “Gonna be a long couple of days,” he murmurs, before trying, _trying_ to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter left! I hope you enjoyed this one; let me know your thoughts! :D :D :D
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> [Tumblr.](http://pterodactyldrops.tumblr.com/)


End file.
